I woke up with an odd hankering for goat milk the other day and I couldn’t figure out why.  I think it was a remnant of a dream I couldn’t quite hang onto in my morning haze, because truth be told, I’m not actually a huge fan of goat milk.  I love goat cheese till there’s no tomorrow, but I’ve never been a straight chugger of the milk itself.  This is in direct contrast to my 14 month old; I’m pretty sure when everyone else is doing keg stands and beer bongs in college he will be pouring ice cold goat milk through a funnel and down his gullet to prove his mettle (at least that’s my hope, given his propensity for it now).  In any case, I couldn’t shake the urge to tickle my tonsils with something of the goat variety, so I started thinking long and hard about how I could dress it up so it wouldn’t be quite so, well, goaty.  Yes, I know the whole lipstick on a Palin adage, and it’s not that I wanted to mask the nature of the goat- just enhance it somehow. 

That’s when it hit me- CAJETA! For those of you unlucky enough to be unfamiliar with this ooh la la substance- it’s basically dulce de leche made with goat’s milk instead of cow milk.  The goat taste imparts more complexity on the flavor, so rather than being sweet and cloying (as I sometimes find dulce de leche), it adds a layer of depth to the caramel, kind of like the difference between a tawny and a ruby port.  I absolutely love to make cajeta because of the mouthwatering odor it bestows on the entire kitchen as its reducing- make it once and you won’t soon return to your dulce de leche ways. 

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Back in the ‘70’s the question du jour was “Do you fondue?”  If your answer to this simple question was not affirmative I’m told you would be virtually cast away to Gilligan’s Island to live out your days far, far away from Studio 54, Jean Michel Basquiat and all things polyester.  I’m hoping to start a new, globally-sweeping trend now that we’re nearing the bend of 2010 (hard to believe, isn’t it!) by busting out my raclette set and throwing a thoroughly modern type of shindig.  Maybe the catchy slogan will be “Got raclette?”  A thinly veiled attempt to make “Got milk” actually sound appealing.  Yeah, maybe not.  I’m starting to think that universal food trends only come about when you can think of a really good slogan to advertise them, and alas, raclette isn’t exactly the easiest word to throw into a play on words.  Well, let’s move on from my semantic quandary and get down to the meat of the evening (I am such a dork).

If anyone is wondering what I’m going on about and wouldn’t know raclette from Adam, let me explain. Raclette is a Swiss/French cheese and is also the name of the tabletop heated griddle/cooker used to melt said cheese.  You can officially call it a raclette party when you add various bits to the mix such as cornichons, boiled potatoes (I boil my potatoes in bacon grease for the added health benefit-ha ha) and an assortment of meats that you fry up on the griddle as you’re melting your cheese under the heating element. 

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I was pretty nervous to serve my guests garlic chocolate gelato last night.  That’s why I made three flavors, so that if they didn’t like the garlic chocolate they could delight in the obvious goodness of gianduja chocolate chip, for example.  Or take global comfort in the spicy delicacy of cardamom pistachio, from India and Italy with love.  The good news is that I had plied all 5 of them with enough wine throughout dinner to loosen their lips, so I’m pretty sure I got candid comments between creamy bites.  Curious what they thought?  Well first let’s talk about the “safe” flavors. 

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My first homemade charcuterie project was a resounding success; thanks, Michael Ruhlman, for your super informative book.  Recently I’ve become pretty intrigued with at-home charcuterie; it all started with the extra refrigerator Jonas brought home a few months ago from the office that sat languishing on our deck.  I hate useless appliances, and I really try to keep my kitchen fairly gadget-free (though I confess to being lured in by promised convenience more than I probably should).  That’s why this refrigerator was bothering me so much just sitting there mocking me from our unused upper deck without so much as a nearby electrical outlet so we could plug it in. 

I finally requested that Jonas make a morning project of rearranging our master bathroom closet to accommodate the refrigerator- how many mismatched Missoni bath towels and pilfered Mondrian soaps does a girl really need?  I’ve had it up and running for a month now- it’s great.  I bring Bentley’s bottle of milk upstairs at night, use the second fridge to house said milk, and take it out for the baby in the morning so I don’t have to make the arduous journey downstairs.  That’s it.  There is not another damn thing that has seen the inside of the spare refrigerator to this day, mainly because I can’t regulate the temperature enough inside it to ensure even curing.  What does this have to do with my luscious duck boobies? Not a thing, since it was my laborious mistake in the first place, but I promise you, you will see home-cured pork belly cum bacon coming out of that refrigerator before the year’s end even if I have to get a refrigeration and humidity degree just to figure out how to regulate the chilly sucker! 

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Next time you find yourself cruising South Genessee Street, stop into Flying Squirrel. If the Herb Alpert Pizza is on the menu that night, don’t hesitate to order it.  Follow it with a Molly Moon’s Salted Caramel Ice Cream Sandwich. You can thank me later!

I’m currently battling a minor fascination with all things duck.  I can trace it back to its origin- the amazing duck egg raviolo I was served at top Seattle restaurant Spring Hill.  Since then I’ve cured duck breast into prosciutto, used duck eggs yolks in pasta dough (amazingly elastic!), poached the eggs to perfection, and even fried an egg up on my slab of pink Himalayan salt.  When I was a child of five, my father got the idea in his head that he wanted to dapple in farming and ranching, so he uprooted our bi-racial family from a happy if crowded existence in southern California and transplanted us to a freshly purchased homestead with acreage in BFE Idaho.  The folks in the small town didn’t quite know what to make of a middle-aged white guy with his dark-skinned bride (my mother), her two black teenagers (my half-siblings) and a four-year-old towhead who thought she was a boy and ran around naked all the time (me).  Consequently, our family was largely left to devise our own elaborate entertainment.  Since my brother and sister were busy fighting with each other and trying to master the art of break-dancing in the pasture, I made friends with the dogs and ducks. 

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